Alexander Kent - Cross of St George

It was she. Except that when he had last seen her, she had been only the wife of his captain in the old Canopus.

Crowe prompted, “Was that the lady of your acquaintance?”

“I think I was mistaken.” He picked up his hat. “Please have the other purchases delivered to the address I gave you.”

No arguments, no hesitation. Sir Richard Bolitho’s name opened many doors.

He walked out into the street, glad to be moving again. Why should he care? Why did it matter so much? She had been unreachable then, when he had been stupid enough to believe it was more than just an amusing game to her, a passing flirtation.

Had she changed? He had caught a glimpse of her hair, honey-coloured; how many days, how many sleepless nights he had tried to forget it. Perhaps she had been part of the reason he had not resisted when his uncle, then Sir Paul Sillitoe, had suggested that he offer himself for the position of flag lieutenant to Sir Richard Bolitho. He had expected his application to be refused as soon as Bolitho had learned more about him. Instead, he had never forgotten that day in Falmouth, in the old house he had come to know so well, their kindness to him, the trust, and eventually the friendship which had done so much to heal the doubts and the injuries of the past. He had thought little more beyond the next voyage, the next challenge, even though it took him to the cannon’s mouth yet again.

And now, this. It had been a shock. He had deluded himself. What chance would he have had? A married woman, and the wife of his own captain? It would have been like putting a pistol to his head.

Was she still as beautiful? She was two years older than himself, maybe more. She had been so alive, so vivacious. After the slur of the court martial, and then being marooned on the old Canopus, he thought until the end of his service, she had been like a bright star: he had not been the only officer who had been captivated. He quickened his pace, and halted as someone said, “Thank you, sir!”

There were two of them. Once they had been soldiers; they even wore the tattered remnants of their red coats. One was blind, and held his head at an angle as though he were trying to picture what was happening. The other had only one arm, and was clutching a hunk of bread which had obviously been handed to him by a pot-boy from the nearby coffee-house. It had probably been left on someone’s plate.

The blind man asked, “What is it, Ted?”

The other said, “Bit o’ bread. Don’t worry. We might get lucky.”

Avery could not control his disgust. He should have been used to it, but he was not. He had once come to blows with another lieutenant who had taunted him about his sensitivity.

He said sharply, “You there!” and realized that his anger and dismay had put an uncharacteristic edge to his voice. The one-armed man even cowered, but stood protectively between the officer and his blind companion.

Avery said, “I am sorry.” He was reminded suddenly of Adam Bolitho, and the presentation sword he had sold. “Take this.” He thrust some money into the grimy hand. “Have something hot to eat.”

He turned away, annoyed that such things could still move and trouble him.

He heard the blind man ask, “Who was that, Ted?”

The reply was barely audible above the clatter of wheels and harness.

“A gentleman. A true gentleman.”

How many were there like that? How many more would there be? Probably soldiers from a line regiment, maybe two of Wellington ’s men: shoulder to shoulder, facing French cavalry and artillery. Living from battle to battle, until luck changed sides and turned on them.

Those around him did not realize what it was like, and would never believe that either he or his admiral could still be moved by such pitiful reminders of the cost of war. Like that moment in Indomitable ’s cabin after Adam’s ship had been lost, and a single survivor had been dragged from the sea by the brig Woodpecker, which, against orders, had returned to the scene. That survivor had been the ship’s boy. Avery had watched Bolitho bring the child back to life with his compassion, even as he had endeavoured to discover what had happened to Adam.

Avery had once believed that his own suffering had left him indifferent to the fate of others. Bolitho had convinced him otherwise.

Somewhere a clock chimed: St James’s, Piccadilly, he thought. He had passed it without noticing it. He looked back, but the two redcoats had gone. Like ghosts, momentarily released from some forgotten field of battle.

“Why, Mister Avery! It is you.”

He stared at her, vaguely aware that she was standing in the doorway of a perfumery, with a prettily wrapped box in her arms.

It was as if the street had emptied, and, like the two ghosts, had lost all identity.

He hesitated, and removed his hat, saw her eyes move over his face, and, no doubt, he thought bitterly, the dark hair which was so thickly streaked with grey. This was the moment he had lived in his dreams, when he would sting her with sarcasm and contempt, and punish her in a way she could never forget.

She wore a fur muff on one hand, and the parcel was in danger of falling. He said abruptly, “Let me assist you,” and took it from her; it was heavy, but he scarcely noticed. “Is there someone who will carry this for you?”

She was gazing at him. “I saw what you did for those poor beggars. It was kind of you.” Her eyes rested briefly on the new epaulette. “Promotion too, I see.”

“I fear not.” She had not changed at all. Beneath the smart bonnet her hair was probably shorter, as the new fashions dictated. But her eyes were as he remembered them. Blue. Very blue.

She seemed to recall his question. “My carriage will return for me in a moment.” Her face was full of caution now, almost uncertainty.

Avery said, “I imagined that I saw you earlier. A trick of the light, I daresay. I heard that you had lost your husband.” A moment of triumph. But it was empty.

“Last year…”

“I read nothing of it in the Gazette, but then, I have been away from England.” He knew he sounded curt, discourteous, but he could not help it.

She said, “It was not in battle. He had been in poor health for some time. And what of you? Are you married?”

“No,” he said.

She bit her lip. Even that little habit was painful to see. “I believe I read somewhere that you are aide to Sir Richard Bolitho.” When he remained silent she added, “That must be vastly exciting. I have never met him.” The slightest hesitation. “Nor have I met the famous Lady Somervell. I feel the poorer for it.”

Avery heard the sound of wheels. So many others, but somehow he knew it was the carriage that matched her coat.

She asked suddenly, “Are you lodging in town?”

“I have been staying in Chelsea, my lady. I shall be leaving for the West Country when I have arranged my affairs in London.”

There were two vivid spots of colour in her cheeks, which were not artificial. “You did not always address me so formally. Had you forgotten?”

He heard the carriage slowing down. It would soon be over: the impossible dream could not harm him any more. “I was in love with you then. You must have known that.”

Boots clattered on the pavement. “Just the one, m’ lady?”

She nodded, and watched with interest as the footman took the box from Avery, noting his expression, the tawny eyes she had always remembered.

She said, “I have reopened the house in London. We had been living at Bath. It is not the same any more.”

The footman lowered the step for her. He did not spare Avery even a glance.

She rested one hand on the carriage door. Small, well-shaped, strong.

She said, “It is not far from here. I like to be near the centre of things.” She looked up at him, searching his face, as though considering something. “Will you take tea with me? Tomorrow? After all this time…”